


A Far Country

by blackkat



Series: Plo Koon drabbles [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The temple is old stone and sacred hush, heavy on the bones as Wolffe strides through it.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Plo Koon drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941628
Comments: 8
Kudos: 520





	A Far Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dastardlyenables](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dastardlyenables/gifts).



> For Sol, because this is all their fault anyway.

The temple is old stone and sacred hush, heavy on the bones as Wolffe strides through it. The march of the men behind him rings through the walls and columns, cool against the desert heat beyond, and the rustle of silk and the scale armor beneath it is like whispers rising all around them.

After so many trips those these ancient halls, Wolffe should be used to the feel, the weight of them. Heavier than his broadsword, heavier than helms and mail and duties, and it breathes like a crouched and waiting thing, watchful, greedy of its priest’s attention. Wolffe’s skin prickles under the attention of invisible eyes, but he keeps his head up, his steps moving forward.

The newest recruits stayed outside in the sand, unwilling to brave the temple’s halls, but Wolffe has called them home for more years than he can count, and the living, watchful beast of the power here is a guardian he trusts as much as the priest it keeps safe.

At the first flight of stairs leading down, two sets of Wolffe’s brothers break off, turning sharply to put their backs to the wall. They stand at attention, guarding the stairwell as if there’s anything here that could be a danger able to be defeated by their hands, but Wolffe doesn’t look back. He leads the rest of the men down to the next level, steps ringing loud against the stone.

Here the air is darker, cooler. There’s a dampness to it that has nothing to do with must or age, a freshness that fills Wolffe’s lungs like healing balm against desert-dry lungs, and he breathes it in, closes his eyes for a long moment and then keeps moving through the slants of sunlight that reach from above. Another set of stairs lead down to the last level, and the rest of his men come to a sharp halt, assembled to wait with their weapons at rest.

Only Wolffe takes the last stairway, dark and unrelieved. The steps he knows from memory, from a hundred thousand repetitions over the years, and he doesn’t hesitate to pass through the darkness.

The priest is protected here, guarded from the purge that felled the rest of his order, but—

Wolffe has protected him since the fall, and he and the temple have an accord. It keeps the priest, and he keeps the man beneath the power.

The stairs end on grassy earth, not stone, and Wolffe’s bootfalls are muffled as he crosses through the open air and out into filtered sunlight falling from high above. The dome of glass that lets it in is a relic of an older age, something tragic in the fact that it remains when so little else does, and as he always does Wolffe spares a glance for the colorful glass, the delicate metalwork that scrolls around its edges. Quickly, though, he drops his eyes to the perfectly still pool beneath its light, surround by verdant green, and the man sitting on the edge of it.

Once, a very long time ago, Wolffe would have hesitated. He would have stopped, offered obeisance from the edge of the grass. It’s been an age of the world since then, though, and he hardly pauses as he strides across through the sunlight and goes to one knee before one of the last of the old order.

“My Wolffe,” Plo says, and beneath the veils Wolffe can't see the details of his face, but he can hear the smile in his voice. “You returned.”

“Always,” Wolffe says, rough. A scarred, orange-skinned hand rises, and he catches it in one of his own, presses Plo's knuckles to his brow. “I found another child. She’s with the rest, waiting outside.”

Plo lets out a breath, a low hum that curls against Wolffe’s skin like a touch. “Her name?” he asks.

“Rey,” Wolffe answers, and when long, talon-tipped fingers drift through his hair, he glances up. Finds Plo watching him, warm and quiet, and can't help the faint pull of a smile. “She’s…fierce.”

Plo chuckles. “She’ll have to be, to bear me as her teacher,” he says, a light tease, but Wolffe frowns deeply. There’s a legend that Plo is a god whose sea dried up around him, or that he’s the child of a monster born blessed and holy, or a thousand other things to explain his appearance, but Wolffe has never asked and never truly cared to know. Plo is his, and that’s all that matters.

He shifts his grip on Plo's hand, tugging instead of holding, and Plo makes a soft sound of surprise but lets himself be moved. He shifts closer, and Wolffe leans in, taps their foreheads together in a soldier’s equivalent of a kiss. Then, because Plo is a warrior but he isn't a brother in their order, he steals a real kiss, too, soft and chaste with the veils between them.

“She’s lucky,” he says, brusque, quick, but—

Plo sees the truth of the words in his face and smiles, and the touch of his claws on Wolffe’s cheek is as light as a butterfly’s wing. “Well,” he says, and the warmth of his voice touches Wolffe down to the very bone. “Shall we meet her, then?”

Wolffe breathes out, slow, and closes his eyes. “In a minute,” he says roughly, because he gets little enough time with Plo as it is. He won't keep him down here forever, won't hoard his attention, but—

Just a few minutes more, to make up for the weeks spent apart.

“As long as you like,” Plo says, eyes crinkling. “I'm yours, Wolffe. You know.”

Wolffe breathes in, out. Curls his fingers around Plo's wrist, and agrees, “I know.”


End file.
